Alex James: The Great Escape

I'd forgotten that moving to the country was such a gamble. When we left London three years ago, I really thought my life might be over. My band was disintegrating. I'd just stopped drinking and shagging so I could get married, and that shed a layer of boozy mates and girlfriends. My handful of close friends and favourite girlfriends could cope with my sobriety, but most of them never forgave me for getting married.

Claire's friends were even more appalled by me than mine were, and I suppose it could have been a disaster. No job, no mates and no experience of the countryside. Buying a knackered farm appeared a reckless move. A manor house or a rectory would have been the standard rock-star purchases of choice, but the farm is why it all turned out all right. All happy endings imply some kind of garden.

The English countryside, which is, without doubt, the prettiest in the world, is a vast, dilapidated stately home. The giant fields in Europe and North America are an unappealing habitat, great for colossal machines, but not for people. England's green and pleasant land is totally impractical for agricultural purposes and hugely expensive to run, but the whole thing is a kind of Grade-I listed national monument and a wonderful place to live.

This was brought to mind after a conversation with someone who, some years ago, had moved to a fabulous house nearby with her husband. For quite some time, she found herself quite isolated and unhappy, depressed, even.

Is there an opposite of depression? I have that condition, a sort of mid-life euphoria. Symptoms of this often overlooked state of mind include silently staring at everything; not wanting to go out; inability to concentrate on one thing at a time; overeating and cravings for cosmology. I also seem to have built a lot of unnecessary things, and I can't stop. Now I'm considering mounting a flagpole on the cheese factory. I just feel it has to be done. I've talked to the pigs about it, and they agree with me.

Ten years ago, country living would have driven me insane, but we moved at the right time. I think I would have gone mad without realising, if I'd stayed in town. I feel like this is where I belong, a feeling affirmed at the butcher's on Saturday. Possibly, because I bought some faggots. The butcher said, "Faggots, lovely! No need to pay now, you can have an account. We deliver in your neck of the woods, tell me what you want and we'll drop it off for you."

I've got my own order book, now. He said, "Look, I'll put it here, next to Jeremy's." It was a proud moment, better than being inducted to the rock'n'roll hall of fame. Clarkson, the crown king of television, is the guv'nor in these parts. This was highlighted at the local barn dance on Saturday. David Cameron was there, too, but he's a fair way down the local pecking order. There are old ladies in the neighbourhood who have more clout than he does, and always will. That's the way it is around here. Being prime minister isn't enough to cut it with some of those grandes dames. They've seen it all.

a.james@independent.co.uk